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syndyj · 13 days ago

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↳˗ˏˋAlastor x Wife!Readerˊˎ˗ ↴

☒ Summary: Lucifer gets a little too brazen with Alastor's darling wife. Guess the Ruler of Hell would just have to learn a lesson about who you belong to.

☒ Warnings: fem!reader, she/her pronouns used, jealous!alastor, soft comforting shower sex, knotting, alastor has a tail, consent, making out, soft kisses, biting, marking kink, alstor laps up the readers blood because he bites a liiiitle too hard, creampie, banter between alastor and lucifer, as well as banter between the reader and angel

☒ Word Count: 1,972

Alastor was quite the jealous type.

You were his wife in life and death. To say he was protective of you was an understatement. So, it only made sense that Alastor would lose his composure when the ruler of hell himself arrived at the Hazbin Hotel.

Lucifer was a rather charming man, but you were spoken for. So when he grasped your hand and placed a chaste kiss on the back of your palm, your hand yanked away in the blink of an eye. You could have sworn you heard a crackling growl escape your husband's lips as he watched Lucifer offer you a lustful gaze- and that was simply unacceptable.

"I see you've met my wife!" Alastor let out a forced chuckle as he looped his arm around your waist, pulling you close to his side. You let out a sigh of relief. All thanks to your husband's rescue. Lucifer gave Alastor a pointed look before he blurted out, "You're joking... right?" He scoffed.

Your face scrunched up in anger at Lucifer's rude remark. "Oh, he's as serious as a heart attack." You spat, snaking your own arm around Alastor's back. You squeezed his waist, a habit of yours that let your dear husband know when you were livid.

"But- look at you! You're gorgeous, sweetheart, and he's just... freaky." You were about to snap back before your husband's maniacal laughter tore through the room. "Ha Ha! That's rich coming from the short stack!" Alastor quipped, grip tensing around your waist. Lucifer's chest puffed up in defense before he let out an airy laugh.

"Aha! The height I lack up here, I surely make up for below the belt! Maybe I can show your wife sometime." Lucifer shot you a playful wink, causing your face to scrunch up in disgust. Alastor tensed beside you before he let out another forced laugh, ducking low to get in Lucifer's face. "Ha Ha! Fuck you." Your husband spat, voice missing its usual radio static tone.

Before the situation could escalate further, Charlie intervened. Pushing her father away from the tense atmosphere while mouthing a sympathetic "Sorry!" your way. The aura in the room was stiff. You could certainly cut the tension with a butter knife. "Damn, smiles! Looks like lil' Luci himself has got eyes for your girl!" Angel stated before taking a swig of his cocktail.

You turned your head in Angel's direction. Shooting him a warning glare. The last thing you wanted was for Angel to get caught in the crossfire of your husband's anger. Alastor remained quiet before he slowly began walking toward the staircase. You could tell he was seething with how his ears twitched atop his head. Your husband flickered up the steps without a word, making you worry.

"Damn it, Angel! You knew he was pissed enough as is, no need to poke the bear!" You sighed, rubbing your temples as you made your way over to the bar. Husk poured you a drink, shaking his head in agreement. "Dont'cha mean poke the deer?" Angel chuckled, patting your back in a lighthearted manner. Husk cursed under his breath at Angel's remark.

"Cut that shit out, or he'll put you on his next fuckin' broadcast," Husk grumbled, cleaning a glass with a worn-down rag. You sipped your drink before rubbing your temples once more, shaking your head in annoyance. "I should probably go check in on him..." You spoke to yourself before turning on your heel, waving a small goodbye to your two good buddies.

"She's in for a loooong night!" Angel giggled, causing Husk to flick his forehead as a warning to "Shut the fuck up."

You took a breath before carefully opening your shared bedroom door. "Darling?" You called out, descending further into the space as you scanned the room for your husband. You peacefully made steps toward your private bathroom, having heard the shower running from beyond the door. To your luck, the door was left unlocked, making it easy for you to slip inside.

The bathroom was full of steam as your eyes trailed to the red tufts of hair reflecting through the clear glass shower door. Alastor heard you come in, but he still remained silent. Trying his best to cool off. He hated losing his composure more than anything. Carefully, you began ridding yourself of your garments, leaving your clothes in a pile beside Alastor's. You slid the glass door open, stepping into the shower with your husband.

Alastor's ears were pinned against his head as he stood underneath the shower head, allowing the water to cascade down his face. His back was toward you. Your husband's hands were placed in front of him on the cold tiles. Keeping him stabilized. "Al, my love? Is it alright if I touch you?" You whispered softly from where you stood behind him. A moment passed before he nodded in agreement, still remaining silent.

Slowly, you wrapped your arms around him. Allowing your hands to caress his midsection all the way up his chest. You rested your head in between his shoulder blades, pressing your chest flush against his back. Alastor let out a deep sigh, your touch bringing him much-needed comfort. "That impudent man.." Your husband muttered, ears twitching in annoyance as he did so. You rubbed circles into his chest, placing gentle kisses against his back.

"He's a jerk, Al. I'm all yours, forever and always," Your lips curled into a smile toward the end of your sentence as you felt his tail wagging, brushing against your lower tummy. Your husband's shoulders eased up from your words. He let out a breath before turning on his heel. Alastor's hands immediately cupped your face, doubling over to capture your lips with his. Your eyes fluttered shut, hands rubbing your husband's sides lovingly as your mouths molded perfectly against one another.

Your shared embrace lasted a few beats longer before your husband pulled back, half-lidded crimson eyes gazing down at you. "Indeedy, my doe. You're all mine! I suppose I'll have to make it evident to the short stack... and anyone else who dares to court you." His voice dipped low; as did his wandering hands. Alastor's pointed nails dug into the back of your thighs as he hoisted you up. On instinct, your legs wrapped around his slender waist.

A pleasant gasp escaped you as you felt your husband's hard length brush against your core. Alastor let out a deep growl against the nape of your neck as he nipped at the sensitive flesh there. "Alastor..." You whined. Tipping your head back so your husband could have better access. A shiver ran down your spine when your back collided with the cool tile walls. Alastor bit a little too harshly between the juncture of your throat and shoulder.

A bit of blood trickled down your collarbone, but your husband was quick to lap it up. A deep groan from him sent a rush of heat down to your core. "Divine, my little doe. Absolutely delectable," Alastor mumbled against your sternum before one of his hands slipped between your bodies. He rubbed the flushed tip of his cock between your folds, groaning at the feeling of your slick. "May I, my darling?" Alastor whispered, lips ghosting over yours as he waited patiently for your approval.

"Yes, please..." You sighed, burying your hands into his soaked two-toned locks. Your husband slowly pushed himself past the tight ring of your pussy. Capturing your lips at the same time, drinking up all of your moans as he stretched you open. Your eyes rolled back into your head when Alastor bottomed out inside you. Slowly, you caressed his sensitive ears. Pride pooled in your chest when your husband twitched wildly inside you from the gesture.

Your lips pulled back from his when Alastor began thrusting into you. His movements were sharp but shallow, not wanting to pull back more than he had to from the warmth of your pussy. Your husband's head fell forward, forehead resting flush against your shoulder. Alastor groaned against your damp skin as your walls clenched tightly around his throbbing cock. All you could do was moan in pleasure as your husband fucked into you perfectly.

"Mine, all mine..." Alastor huffed out before suckling at the base of your neck. You could feel your husband's knot begin to swell inside you as your own release approached rapidly. Apsentmindly, Alastor's thumb dipped between your bodies. He rubbed at your clit expertly as he jackhammered up into you. Your legs tightened around his waist as the coil within your tummy was only moments from snapping. "I'm yours, all yours..."

Your words sent Alastor over the edge. He moaned loudly into your neck as his hips stilled, emptying his load deep inside you. The feeling of your husband cumming inside you was enough to trigger your own orgasm. Alastor hissed as he felt your pussy gush around his cock, squeezing him like a vise. After a few moments, you felt Alastor's knot begin to deflate. Allowing his now softening cock to slip out of your inviting heat. "You truly are just darling. How did I get so lucky?" Alastor chuckled as he lifted his head to gaze into your eyes.

A bashful smile crossed your features as Alastor slowly lowered your thighs from off his waist. Being sure to hold your hips, stabilizing your trembling legs. "Oh, hush! I'm the lucky one." You giggled, untangling your hands from his hair. Allowing your palms to cup his face, pulling him down for a chaste kiss. Alastor kept his eyes open as you kissed, admiring your lovely visage. After a moment, you pulled back, nuzzling your nose into his. "Now, let's get washed up before heading back out there, yeah?"

Alastor and you emerged from the room a little while later. Meeting up with the group from where they gathered in the foyer. Charlie cheerfully waved you and your husband over, and you didn't miss the way Lucifer scowled at Alastor. "We were wondering where you lovebirds wandered off to," Vaggie stated, scooting over on the couch to allow you both to sit. Swiftly, Alastor sat on the sofa before pulling you into his lap. A smile etched into your face as your husband's arms looped around your frame, large palms caressing the tops of your thighs.

You heard Lucifer grumble under his breath from the public display of affection. Your friends, on the other hand, had their jaws on the floor. Alastor rarely showed his physical admiration toward you in front of them. So, to say they were shocked was an understatement. "Told ya they snuck away to fuck! Look at her neck, haha- Husk! You owe me that hundred bucks," Angel blurted out. Laughing his ass off. Heat rushed to your face from your friend's crass words. Alastor, on the other hand, glared at Lucifer. His smile stretched from ear to ear as the ruler of hell fumed.

"Angel-! Husk-?! You made a bet on whether or not Alastor and I would... ah, you fuckers!" Embarrassment flooded your entire being, hands darting up to cover your face. Alastor let out a loud chuckle from your adorable reaction. "No, toots. We're not the fuckers! You're the one who got fucked, aha!" You quickly got up from your spot atop Alastor's lap, storming over to Angel. "Husk, you're next!" You shouted, chasing Angel around the lobby. "Leave me out of this! That dumbass wouldn't shut up until I accepted the bet." Husk grumbled, not entertaining the bullshit.

All the while, Alastor was giving Lucifer a sharp look with that shit-eating grin still illuminating his features. "As you can see, there's no need for you to show my wife your little chum below the belt. My darling is more than satisfied in my care!"

#hazbin hotel #alastor x reader

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syndyj · 15 days ago

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DRAWN TO YOU. || s. ishigami

Rebuilding the world takes time. So does love. But gravity doesn't ask for permission. The tides don't apologize You've always been drawn to him. And him, to you.

| fic masterlist. | song of the chapter.

i. curiosity | 11.8k words

Kids are mean.

You were six years old when you first encountered Senku Ishigami. It was your first day after being transferred to a school across the country, and you already hated everything— the unfamiliar classroom, the weird accents, even the lunch trays were different. Every little thing seemed to tick you off more and more. And it’s not like the rest of the kids made it any better. After your— extremely difficult to understand and rushed— introduction, the class already moved on from you; the shiny new student they might’ve wanted to befriend, to just another forgettable face.

So that's how you found yourself alone on the playground. You looked around at the other children, all huddled into their own little groups of friends, and you stared at them with envy.

You missed your friends.

You missed your family.

You missed your old house— where the wood floors would creak under your foot if you stepped on them wrong.

You missed the neighborhood cats you used to sneak food to at night. You missed the creek you’d visit every spring and summer, where you’d get muddy and soaked while hunting for pretty rocks and slugs.You missed your old life, the one you had before you had to pack everything up and move with your mom. But above all,

you missed your dad the most.

The thought of him hit you like a punch to the gut. It wasn’t even a whole memory— just a flash: his laugh while lifting you onto his shoulders at festivals; the way he’d whistle off-key while making breakfast; or those weekend trips deep into the woods, just the two of you.

You used to love those trips. He’d kneel in the dirt beside you, gently pushing aside leaves to reveal strange little flowers or odd-smelling roots. He knew them all by name— scientific and otherwise— and he’d always let you carry the worn leather field guide, its pages dog-eared, scribbled with notes, and stained with years worth of dirt and grime.

“This one’s good for sore throats,” he’d say, pressing a leaf into your palm. “And that one? Don’t eat it. Not unless you want to meet the gods early.” he’d chuckle.

You’d giggle with him, even if you didn’t fully understand the weight of what he meant.

Back then, it felt like magic— the way he could heal little cuts with leaves, soothe a fever with bitter tea, or calm your nightmares with a poultice and a quiet story. He was like a mini wizard, the kind who didn’t need spells— just plants, patience, steady hands, and a kind heart. He was someone you admired, someone you wanted to become.

You didn’t know it then, but those moments were planting something deep inside you. A curiosity. A quiet kind of wonder. The beginnings of a map that wouldn’t finish drawing itself until much, much later.

And now, sitting alone on the edge of a strange playground in a strange town, with dirt under your shoes and no one to talk to— you’d give anything to be back in those woods again, his voice calmly naming herbs like they were old friends.

You didn’t even notice that you had begun to cry, the tears falling into your lap before you could rein them back. You were pathetic weren’t you? Can’t even make it one day in this new place before you start falling apart, your mom would be disappointed in you. You blinked hard, bringing the dark colored sleeve of your sweater up to wipe away at your face. You shouldn't be crying. Definitely not here where the rest of the kids could see.

"Hey."

You turned your head quickly, already on edge, but it wasn't another group of kids ready to come and eat you alive. It was one boy. He was slightly taller than you, but honestly you blamed half of his height on his hair— spiky and pale green that stuck out like his roots were battling with gravity itself (and winning). He wasn’t smiling down at you, but he didn't look mean either.

“Wanna see something cool?” he asked, crouching beside you without waiting for permission. You glanced at him like he was insane. He dug into his backpack and pulled out what looked like a pencil case... but not really. It was metal. And humming like some sort of animal, cobbled together with wires and tape.

“…What’s that s’posed to be?” you asked, brows furrowed, wary but intrigued.

“Prototype,” he said. “Kind of a battery-powered brush bot. Not super stable yet, but I got it to move yesterday. Thought it might be fun to tweak it.”

He glanced over at you. “You any good with your hands?”

You hesitated a frown tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Not with machines, nah.”

“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow. “What then?”

You dug your fingers into the sand. It was warm, gritty, grounding. “Plants,” you said quietly. “Back home, my papa’d take me out into the hills every weekend. Taught me how to tell one leaf from ‘nother, how to crush bark into powder or steep roots in tea.”

You paused, then added with a soft smile, “He always said everythin’s got its use—if ya just know how to look.”

Senku’s eyes lit up like you’d just said something genuinely impressive. “So you know medicinal stuff?”

You nodded, a little self-conscious. “Some, yeah. Still learnin’, though. But I can tell what’ll help ya and what’ll make ya real sorry ya touched it,” you said with a small laugh. “That count?”

He grinned— wide and crooked and full of mischief. “That 10 billion percent counts.”

The two of you sat there in the sandbox, trading thoughts— him rambling about conductivity and how lemon juice could be a weak electrolyte, and you chiming in with how your dad used to use citrus to clean wounds when you ran out of antiseptic.

It was weird. And nerdy. And messy.

But it didn’t hurt the way everything else did.

You went quiet for a second, eyes drifting down to your lap as you started picking at a loose thread on your sweater sleeve. “Kids’re mean,” you mumbled.

Senku blinked, thrown a little by the shift. “Yeah,” he said after a beat, voice softer than usual. “They can be.”

“They didn’t talk to me,” you murmured, kicking at the sand. “In class, they all just looked at me weird… then forgot I was even there. Ran off at recess like I didn’t even exist. That’s why ya found me sittin’ here all by m’self.”

For once, he didn’t have a quip or fact ready. He just… listened.

“But you’re not mean,” you added, glancing sideways at him, voice smaller now.

Senku shrugged like he didn’t know what to do with that kind of compliment. “I’m just curious.”

You smiled faintly. “Still. Makes ya different.”

Then, after a moment’s pause, you added with a teasing grin, “You are weird, though.”

He shot you a mildly offended look, brows arching. “Seriously?”

“Not in a mean way!” you said quickly, waving both hands defensively. “Ya just… real smart. Talk about stuff most kids don’t care about. But it’s kinda nice. Most folks don’t listen when I ramble ’bout plants or whateva.”

He tilted his head, thoughtful now. “Weird’s subjective,” he muttered. “The world only calls things weird until they become useful.”

You blinked at him, then slowly grinned — that big, proud kinda grin that scrunches your nose. “Well, I’m weird too.”

“Wow,” he replied, completely deadpan, eyes back on the brush-bot. “Hadn’t noticed.”

You snorted, elbowing him lightly. “Hey! Ya don’t gotta agree so fast!”

A hint of a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “Just making an observation. Science-based.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile lingered anyway. “We can be weird together.”

That got his attention.

His hands paused, the little stick he was using to nudge a wire into place hovering midair. For a second, he didn’t respond. Just sat there beside you, the weight of your words swirling in his mind while the silence lingered in the air between you like the dust motes dancing in the afternoon sun.

“Weird together, huh?” he muttered under his breath, voice low and unreadable.

You nodded like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah. Like a team or somethin’. You do your robot stuff, an’ I’ll mix up weird leaf tea. We’ll be unstoppable.”

He finally looked up, eyebrows raising slightly. “That… sounds absurd.”

“Exactly!” you chirped, beaming. “Absurd an’ awesome.”

Senku stared at you for a moment, then shook his head with the kind of exasperated fondness that only made sense in the weird little bubble the two of you had created. He didn’t say anything else— just went back to fiddling with the bot in his lap, poking at the wires with more focus this time.

But his hands had slowed, the usually sharp motions softened into something more relaxed. Measured.

His mind, constantly moving at lightspeed, didn’t dwell on feelings too long. But still— somewhere in the labyrinth of circuits and formulas, something warm flickered quietly. It settled in the part of his brain he rarely noticed, like the click of a gear slipping perfectly into place.

He supposed... he liked the sound of that.

Weird together.

It had a nice ring to it.

When you got home, the first thing you did — after kicking off your shoes and washing your hands like Mama always reminded you — was race into the kitchen, words tumbling out of your mouth like you couldn't get them fast enough.

You left out the part where you cried.

“I met this boy at recess, Mama!” you said, practically bouncing on your toes. “He had this big ol’ hair stickin’ up like seaweed, an’ he showed me this weird robot thing! Said it ran on batteries, but it looked like a bug!”

She hummed softly while stirring the pot on the stove.

“He wasn’t mean neither,” you went on, tugging at the hem of your sweater. “Didn’ laugh or nothin’ when I talked ‘bout plants. Said I was smart for knowin’ stuff Papa taught me…”

She nodded gently, listening with one ear as she added more seasoning.

The smell hit you just then — rich and deep and familiar. Your dad’s favorite stew. Which meant it was yours too, by association. You blinked, throat tightening. It was too much.

“Smells like home,” you whispered, voice quieter now. “Miss it, Mama. Miss… everythin’ I miss papa.”

Your mother turned the heat down low and came over, wiping her hands on a towel before crouching beside you.

“I know, baby,” she said softly, brushing your hair from your face. “I miss him too.”

You nodded, lips pressed tight. Her hand stayed on the side of your head, warm and steady. Like an anchor.

“But Papa’d be real proud, y’know?” she added. “You talkin’ ‘bout your plants like that. Teachin’ someone somethin’ new.”

“Senku already knew a lot,” you mumbled, gaze fixed on the floor. “He talks all fast an’ big like you gotta keep up or get left behind. But he listened.”

She smiled. “Sounds like a good friend.”

You shrugged one shoulder, trying to play it cool. “He’s weird.”

She laughed—just once, soft. The kind of laugh that reminded you of warm afternoons playing out in the backyard, sun on your cheeks, the scent of cut grass and citrus in the air. The kind of laugh your dad used to say made everything feel less heavy— sweeter, better.

She ruffled your hair gently, like she used to when you were smaller. “Well then,” she said, her smile curling with a hint of mischief, “sounds like he might be your perfect match.”

You huffed a small laugh, leaning into her touch just a little. “Yeah. He said we could be weird together!”

“That so?” She questioned while she wiped her hands off with a kitsch towel and began setting the table.

You nodded, a little more certain this time. “Like a team or somethin’. He does his science stuff, and I talk about my plants. Told him some trees can be medicine and poison, dependin’ on how ya use ‘em. He didn’t even flinch.” You paused, trying to hide the small grin that crept up. “He said I was smart for knowin' that. Like, really smart. Never thought anyone’d call me smart for somethin' like that.”

Your mom gave you a look—one of those quiet, proud ones that filled the space between words. “You’re gonna do good things with all that knowledge in your head, sweetheart.”

You wrinkled your nose. “Y’think so?”

“I know so.”

And even though your throat still ached and your chest felt a little too full, something in her voice settled the storm inside you. Just a little.

Later that night, after dinner and dishes and brushing your teeth, you curled up in bed with your old stuffed seal under one arm and the blanket tucked under your chin. The moonlight filtered through the window, painting soft shadows across the ceiling.

Your mama had kissed your forehead and told you to dream something sweet.

But your thoughts wandered back to the sandbox. To wild green hair and wires and your own voice saying, weird together.

You whispered it once into the dark, just to feel how it sounded in the quiet.

It still made you smile.

And for the first time since the move, you didn’t feel quite so alone.

“I think ever’thing’s gon’ be okay now, Papa,” you whispered. “Think I found somethin’ good.”

And just like that, your eyelids fluttered shut— drifting into sleep full of starlight, trees, and whirring machines and a strange little boy with seaweed hair who didn’t think you were too much.

Just enough.

— — — — — — — —

You wouldn’t leave him alone.

Ever since that fateful day at the sandbox, you had been a permanent fixture at Senku’s side—much to his loud and very vocal displeasure. Not because he didn’t like you (he did, though he’d rather chew batteries than admit it), but because you were noisy.

You were always complaining.

“Why’s it makin’ that smell, Senku? That ain’t normal.”

“If ya blow somethin’ up again, I’m tellin’ ya now, I ain’t cleanin’ it.”

“You gotta eat, y’know! You can’t survive on soda and caffeine gum forever, you maniac.”

You were relentless. A constant stream of chatter, commentary, humming, questions about the plants you found outside school, theories about if moss could maybe conduct electricity if it tried hard enough—and complaints. So many complaints.

And yet… you were there. Always. Even when the wires sparked. Even when the experiments fizzled. Even when he barked at you to go away because he was on the verge of something huge, and your presence was apparently “throwing off the magnetic field.” (whatever that meant)

You still showed up the next morning. Hair done up nice, probably after a full-on battle with your mom that morning. A frilly little dress that was practically begging for mud stains. You never cared.

“It shows the proof of our experiments!” you said once, proudly displaying the dirt on your knees like it was a medal. You never seemed to care about the odd looks you’d get from the other girls in your class when you’d come back from recess with leaves in your hair and your clothes a complete mess.

Sometimes, you brought in weird leaves or roots or half-squished flowers to test. Or a broken pencil sharpener you begged him to “turn into a laser.” Senku swore up and down that he couldn’t do it— yet somehow, a few days later, you’d find that same sharpener back on your desk, outfitted with tiny wires and a sticky note written in the world’s most dramatic handwriting:

"Do NOT use in class."

Or you’d bring in a bug you found under the slide that you swore glowed in the dark. (It didn’t.)

Senku rolled his eyes. A lot. He muttered. He groaned. He said “what now” at least three times a day. But he never told you to stop coming.

And maybe that was the strangest part of it all.

Because slowly, between the beakers and bickering, you carved out a little space in the lab and in his life. And much to his horror…

It felt kinda nice.

Not that he’d ever admit that out loud, of course. He had a reputation to maintain. Cold, logical, scientific detachment, all that (although no one else seemed to notice besides him). But the truth was— he’d gotten used to your voice always bouncing off the class walls. To your weird theories and weirder tea blends that you swore could revive a dead person. To the way you always found wonder in the smallest things— a funny-shaped rock, a heart-shaped leaf— like they mattered more than anyone else ever noticed. (they slowly started to matter to him too)

So when middle school started, Senku wasn’t expecting much to change. Same town, same “science club”— which just consisted of you, himself, and 4 other antisocial, nerdy kids from elementary, same people. You’d still be at his side, poking at things you weren’t supposed to and asking questions you already knew the answers to. Business as usual.

Until you weren’t.

Until he walked into homeroom and your desk— the one that always used to be next to his— was empty. Well, not empty, but was occupied by someone he didn’t care enough to give the time of day due to the small fact that they weren’t you.

By second period, he had memorized your new classroom number. By lunch, he'd run several failed simulations in his head, trying to figure out why the school would separate the two of you when your combined test scores had basically carried the district average.

And to make matters worse, that’s when Taiju showed up.

Big. Loud. Alarmingly enthusiastic. The kind of guy who'd break a microscope slide just trying to look at it. Senku hadn’t even learned his name before the guy was plopping down next to him, acting like they had been best friends since the womb.

Taiju grinned, holding up a diagram he'd hastily drawn. "Yo! That thing you said about dominant and recessive traits—check this out!" He pointed to a messy chart, clearly proud of it. "I think my genotype's got, like, all the best traits, right? Gotta be genetically superior, y'know?"

Senku blinked. "That's not how that works."

Taiju just grinned wider. "Cool! You’ll teach me, right?"

Senku sighed. Loudly. And made a mental note to start eating lunch on the roof. But before he could escape, there you were—jogging across the courtyard with your lunch in hand and wind in your hair like no time had passed at all.

“Miss me?” you asked, dropping your lunch bag beside him and flopping onto the bench, a smirk pulling at your lips. “Doesn’t seem like it. You’ve already replaced me, huh?”

Senku glanced over at you, not missing the teasing tone, before giving a nonchalant shrug. “Don’t mind him,” he muttered, gesturing to Taiju, who was still proudly holding up his overripe orange. “He just sat here for some reason.”

Taiju blinked, looking between the two of you like he was missing. Faced turned into confusion like he just saw a question on an exam that he didn’t know the answer to. “Huh? Nah, I didn’t replace anyone! I was just... sitting here. For, uh, science,” he said grinning sheepishly.

You rolled your eyes, popping the lid off your bento. “Sure, sure. Well, don’t worry, I’m still here.” You leaned over and passed Senku a pickled plum, clearly acting like nothing had changed. “No shared classes this year. Kinda sucks, though.”

Kind of? It was a catastrophic miscalculation, is what it was.

Still, you were here now, settling between him and Taiju like you were re-staking your claim. You casually mentioned your morning—“The comp sci room smells like 5-in-one body wash and emotional breakdowns”—before passing him a pickled plum without asking, brushing a leaf out of his hair mid-sentence. You didn’t even need to say much. It was as if nothing had changed.

And somehow… that made it okay.

(Though he did send Taiju death glares every time the guy got a little too comfortable.)

The three of you fell into an odd rhythm after that. A triangle of chaos. Science club became your base of operations, your shared lab table once again strewn with wires, crushed leaves, and half-empty cans of coffee.

Then, one afternoon, you didn’t show up to the club room.

“Where’s Leaf Girl?” Taiju asked, halfway through melting a spoon by accident.

“She has a name, you know,” Senku muttered without even looking up from his work. “And she joined another club.”

“…She what?”

“Something about crafts, extra credit, and ‘don’t worry, I’m still yours on Wednesdays.’”

(Senku remembered it all too well. The way you said it so breezily, like it didn’t completely throw off the internal equilibrium he hadn’t realized he was clinging to. Like one designated day of the week was enough to balance the equation—like it made up for your absence in all the other variables. You smiled when you said it, like it was a promise. But to him, it had sounded a little too much like a compromise. One he hadn’t agreed to, but accepted anyway. Because you were always going to do what you wanted. And he—he was always going to let you.)

That night, over the phone, was the first time Senku heard the name Yuzuriha.

The next day, you were back at the lab, fiddling with solder like it was embroidery thread. “She’s got good hands,” you said offhandedly, as you worked. “Helped me fix a bracelet in, like, five seconds flat.”

“She seemed nice,” Taiju added, his cheeks pink for some reason.

Senku hummed, calculating. Adjusting.

New variable added to the formula.

You reached into your bag, pulled out a bracelet, and handed one to Senku. “Check it out,” you said, clearly excited. “Me and Yuzuriha are basically besties now. We made each other these. Aren’t they cool?”

Senku looked at the bracelet for a moment. The charms were a little too cutesy for his tastes, and the thread was a touch too colorful for his usual preference. But you were beaming, practically glowing with excitement, like you couldn't contain it.

And for a moment, Senku felt a strange twinge in his chest. A weird, inexplicable feeling he couldn’t quite place. Besties. You’d just met Yuzuriha, and already you were practically inseparable, wearing matching bracelets like it was some kind of permanent mark of your shared bond.

He shook his head, trying to shake off the feeling. It was just a bracelet, right? Just a silly little thing, a temporary distraction. He forced himself to breathe and mentally scolded himself for getting worked up over something so trivial.

Just a bracelet, he repeated in his head. But it didn’t stop the strange feeling from lingering.

It clung to him especially hard the day Yuzuriha showed up to the science club—breezing in beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world. She was all bright eyes and soft energy, giving Senku a polite smile before turning to Taiju with a familiar, “There you are!” like she’d just spotted a friend across the cafeteria. (Which, apparently, she had—they shared a class already, something you’d casually mentioned in passing.)

She floated over to the lab table, completely unfazed by the wires, solder burns, and general chaos. “So this is the infamous lab setup,” she said, nudging a stack of resistors aside to sit for a moment. Her eyes flicked to the soldering iron in your hand, and she smiled—just a little too knowingly. “Did you bring the other one, or is that strictly a ‘Wednesday project’?”

You snorted, clearly trying not to laugh. “Shh,” you whispered, elbowing her lightly. “We don’t talk about that in front of the boys.”

“Right, right,” she said, grinning like it was your shared secret.

Senku blinked. What other one?

She asked a few curious questions, complimented Taiju’s “focus” even as he nearly short-circuited a breadboard, and stuck a cat sticker on the back of his hand for “trying his best.” And Senku just sat there, watching it all unfold like he was observing a perfectly controlled experiment slowly go off the rails.

Then—just like that—she was leaving.

“Ah, my art club’s starting, I gotta run,” Yuzuriha said, dipping into an apologetic little bow as she gathered her things. “But you’re in good hands! She’s basically a genius, you know.”

You laughed at that—bashful, like it caught you off guard—like you hadn’t ditched Senku three times that week with “Sorry, helping Yuzu with the display board,” and “She just needed a second pair of hands.” You waved her off, but your eyes followed her all the way to the door, soft and fond.

Senku didn’t say anything. Not then.

But something in him pulled taut. Like a wire stretched too thin. Like a variable had shifted without warning and no one had bothered to rerun the equation.

Because it hadn’t gone unnoticed. The late arrivals. The quick exits. The half-answered texts and “I’ll be there in five” that turned into not at all. You were still his partner on paper. Still took your place beside him at the lab table when you actually showed.

But lately, it felt like you were just… visiting.

And if that stupid bracelet on your wrist sparkled a little too much under the fluorescents—well. That was fine. It didn’t mean anything.

Just string. Just friends.

He didn’t need a bracelet to prove anything.

Right?

You were late again that Wednesday. Just by a few minutes, but it felt a lot longer when Senku was left sitting there, scribbling aimlessly on his paper. The chair beside him sat empty, the space between them feeling a little wider with each second that passed. When you finally showed up, you didn’t immediately say anything. You just dropped your bag beside him and slid into your seat like everything was normal. You cracked open a can of soda, popping the tab with a soft click, but didn’t even offer him one this time.

“I got caught up with Yuzu,” you said casually, like it explained everything. “She needed help picking out some art supplies. You know how she is.”

Senku didn’t reply. His pen continued to scratch across the page—nothing important, just random equations and doodles. Anything to avoid the awkward silence that seemed to stretch between you. But he knew you weren’t fooled.

“You’re mad, aren’t you?”

He didn’t look up. Didn’t even pause. “I’m not mad,” he muttered, his voice flat. “Just... busy.”

You hummed, unconvinced. “Busy, huh?” Leaning closer, you rested your chin in your hand, eyes fixed on him. “Sure you’re not mad because I’ve been ditching you for art club?” The teasing tone in your voice was light, but there was a softness to it, like you knew exactly how it had been eating at him.

Senku went still. His pen stopped moving, but he didn’t say anything. Not now. Not with the weight of it all suddenly hanging in the air between you. He didn’t know how to explain that it wasn’t the art club— or even Yuzuriha— that bothered him. It was the way you’d been drifting just far enough that he couldn’t quite reach you anymore.

But you didn’t need him to say it. You already knew.

“You don’t have to act all grumpy about it,” you said gently, your voice warm in a way that made the tension in his chest tighten. “You know you’re still my partner, right? I’m just… I’m still here. Even if I’m all over the place with the art stuff.” Your voice softened, almost imperceptibly, as if you were sharing something vulnerable for the first time. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

The words hung in the air, their weight pressing down on him in a way he hadn’t expected. There was something about it—something in the way you said it—that felt like both an apology and a promise. He glanced up at you, surprised to find a small, shy smile on your face. Your eyes were soft, but there was still something in them that reminded him of the person who always kept him grounded.

“I still got your back, Senku. You know that, right?”

For a long moment, Senku didn’t say anything. He just sat there, watching you with that look on his face that always made it hard for you to tell what he was thinking. You were still here. You still cared. Even if the world outside the science club kept pulling you in different directions, you kept coming back.

“Yeah,” he said, quietly. “I know.”

There was a pause, heavy with everything unsaid between you two. Then you broke the tension with your usual teasing grin, the one that never failed to lighten the mood.

“Still my lab partner?”

Senku felt the corners of his mouth twitch, but he kept his expression mostly neutral. “For now.”

You laughed softly, the sound like a little breath of relief. The tension from earlier finally seemed to melt away. “Good. You’d better be ready for when I finally beat you in the next experiment.”

He snorted, the last of the tension slipping out of him. “Not gonna happen. You can’t even tell the difference between sodium and potassium chloride.”

“That’s just what I want you to think, genius,” you shot back, the fire in your voice a familiar spark that made Senku’s chest warm in a way he hadn’t expected. But it was a fire he recognized—one that told him things were okay. That you were okay.

And even if the bracelet on your wrist still sparkled a little too much under the lab’s fluorescent lights, maybe it didn’t matter as much as it had before. Maybe it wasn’t about that at all.

Just a string, right?

Just… friends.

The next day, you showed up to the science club room with a small bag in your hand. You didn’t say anything at first. You just slid into your seat—the one next to Senku—and pulled out two keychains—matching ones, each with a tiny scientific equation printed on them.

Senku raised an eyebrow, half-expecting another one of your weird, random gadgets. But no. This time, it was different. You placed the keychains on the lab table, right in front of him, your face all casual, like it wasn’t a big deal.

He eyed the keychain you’d put in front of him. Of course, it was that equation. The one that everyone knew, that had somehow become synonymous with science itself. E = mc².

"...You really went with that one, huh?" Senku asked, his tone flat but with a trace of surprise. "You know it's not exactly a secret, right?"

You chuckled, your voice softening as you met his eyes. “Yeah, I know. But it’s classic. Can’t go wrong with Einstein.” You nudged his keychain closer to him, and for a brief moment, you glanced down at the one you held in your hand. It wasn’t as famous, but it was still a perfect fit—a clean, precise representation of another fundamental concept, one Senku would appreciate.

"I got the same one for me," you said, voice casual but your eyes glinting with something that felt a little softer than usual. "Just... figured it'd be nice to match, you know?"

Senku stared at the keychain in front of him, a strange feeling settling in his chest. He wasn’t sure if it was warmth or something else, but it was there, undeniable. He didn’t need to ask why you’d done it. He already knew. You were always like this—subtle, thoughtful in ways he didn’t always catch until they were right in front of him.

“You’re way too sentimental,” he muttered, though his fingers brushed against the keychain in a way that felt surprisingly light, a little less guarded than usual.

“Maybe,” you said, a playful smile tugging at your lips. "But what can I say? I thought it’d be funny if we both had one." You attached your keychain to the strap of your bag, then looked over at him with a soft glint in your eyes. "It’s like... a little reminder. Of us, yeah?"

Senku froze for a split second, then slowly processed your words. A reminder. Of you two.

He didn’t know why it hit him the way it did. Maybe it was the way you said it, so casually, as if it was no big deal. Maybe it was because it wasn’t about the keychains at all, but what they symbolized. A connection. An acknowledgment that despite everything—despite the shifting tides between art club and science club, despite the distractions—you still saw him. And more importantly, you still cared.

And then, as if to soften the weight of the moment, you added with a smile, “Also, ‘cause I know Einstein’s your favorite, so by association, he’s mine too.”

Senku blinked, his heart skipping a beat at the unexpected sentiment. He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Instead, he reached for the keychain, fingers grazing the smooth surface, feeling its weight. He was still trying to hold onto his usual cool, but there was something about this, about the gesture, that made him feel... lighter.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” he said, voice low but not quite as dismissive as before. “I’ll keep it on my bag. For science.”

You nodded, a quiet satisfaction in your expression as you got back to work, your hands moving quickly and deftly across the lab equipment. The sound of it—the clinks and clatters—felt oddly comforting, like everything was falling back into place.

Senku didn’t clip the keychain to his bag immediately. Instead, he let it sit there for a few moments, like it was a secret he wasn’t ready to fully acknowledge yet. But when he finally did, when he clipped it to the strap of his bag, it didn’t feel like a decision he had to make. It felt like a choice he wanted to make.

It was just a keychain, after all. Just a string.

Just friends.

But maybe—just maybe—it meant a little more than that. At least to him.

Over your years at junior high, things had changed. The experiments became more challenging, you joined more clubs, your bond with Senku strengthened, and the science club felt more like a second home. But as time passed, you started to notice a shift—slowly, imperceptibly at first.

And then, Mika showed up.

At first, it seemed harmless. She transferred from some fancy academy, and the buzz around her arrival felt like just another passing thing. She had the looks, the presence—everything that screamed "I belong here." And naturally, with the crowd of “new student must befriend” gawking at her feet, she set her eyes on her next feast. Her eyes, always sparkling with that arrogance, quickly found Senku. And since she saw you always hanging around him, she tried with all her might to make your days living hell. Even going as far to join the science club, even though her grades and tests were beyond abysmal, and she seemed to have no real interest in science at all.

Somehow, despite everything, Senku hadn’t pushed her away. In fact, it almost seemed like he welcomed her, even though his reasons were more scientific than social.

It wasn’t like she belonged in the science club, not really. But she’d decided to join, and Senku—being Senku—couldn’t say no. “Why the hell not?” he had said, leaning back in his chair. “More test subjects, more data. It’s useful.”

And that was it. She’d started coming around more often, getting involved with experiments, helping him out with supplies. Of course, Senku did use her, but that didn’t stop her from sticking around, always looking for an excuse to hover near him, watching him with those soft, fluttering eyes.

You didn’t mind at first. You really didn’t. It was just the science club, and you were friends, right? Friends who worked together. But as time went on, you started noticing things that you hadn’t before. Little touches. The way Mika would stand just a bit too close to Senku as they worked, the way she’d giggle a little too loud when Senku made a sarcastic remark, as if she were enthralled by his genius.

It wasn’t like Senku was oblivious— he just… didn’t notice.

Mika would pass him supplies, her hand brushing against his in a way that lingered just a second too long, and Senku would nod, hardly noticing the shift in her behavior. But you did. You felt it every time she leaned in a little too close to him, every time she laughed at something Senku said—like she was trying to make him laugh, like she was trying to make him notice her.

And it was starting to grate on you.

It wasn't jealousy, you told yourself. It wasn’t. You and Senku were just friends. Friends who worked together. Friends who sat next to each other in the lab, who bantered back and forth. That’s all it was. You didn’t need to feel this... weird about it.

But then, everything shifted.

You were on your way to the science club, thinking you’d be able to brush off the discomfort from the day, when suddenly, Mika appeared. She was standing in the doorway of an empty classroom, her arms crossed, a knowing smile playing at the corners of her lips.

“Going to the science club again?” she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Funny how you never get tired of hanging around Senku. Don’t you think it’s a little... pathetic?”

Her words caught you off guard, but you refused to let them shake you. You met her gaze, refusing to back down. “Excuse me?”

Mika tilted her head, her smirk growing. “I just don’t get it. You’re so... obsessed with him. Is that really what your life’s become? Following him around like a puppy? Or maybe you just don’t know how to let go.”

A knot tightened in your stomach, but you weren’t going to let her get to you. “You’re literally going to the science club too,” you shot back, voice cool but sharp. “Maybe you should look in the mirror before you start throwing around accusations. It’s not like you’ve got any better reason to be there.”

Mika’s eyes flickered with surprise, but she quickly masked it with another smug smile. “Oh, I don’t know. I actually help with the experiments. Unlike you, who’s just there for the ride.”

“I literally do more work than you…” you muttered under your breath. You clenched your fists, but you kept your cool, even as the sting of her words dug deep. “At least I’m not trying to use him for some lame excuse to hang around,” you retorted, your voice dripping with disbelief. “You're not fooling anyone.”

Mika’s smile faltered just for a second before she regained her composure. “Touchy, aren’t we?” she taunted. “Don’t worry. It’s just cute how much you care about him. Too bad he doesn’t see you the same way.”

The words hit harder than you expected, but before you could respond, she turned on her heel, her smirk never fading. You stood there for a few moments, stunned, trying to push the words from your mind. But the weight of her words followed you all the way to the science club, where things only seemed to get worse.

When you arrived, Senku was already there, buried in his notes as usual, his focus unwavering. But Mika was there too, hovering over him. She was standing a little too close, her hand brushing against his as she passed him something. It felt deliberate, like she was putting on a show. You could feel the tension in the air—the way she was leaning in, giggling a little too loudly at Senku’s jokes, as if she were trying to get his attention, trying to make him see her. It made your stomach churn.

Senku looked up for a moment, noticing the change in your behavior. “What’s up? You’re awfully quiet today,” he said, not taking his eyes off his notes.

You forced a smile, though it felt more like a grimace. “I’m fine,” you muttered, looking away.

Mika, sensing your discomfort, seized the moment to step in closer. She leaned against the workbench next to Senku, her shoulder brushing against his. “You know, Senku, I could really help you with your next big experiment,” she said, her voice sugary sweet. “I’ve got plenty of free time now.”

You felt the tension in your chest tighten, every little thing about her touch setting you off. Her proximity to him, the way she seemed to practically be begging for his attention—it was unbearable.

"I’m gonna go," you blurted, surprising even yourself with the abruptness. Without another word, you grabbed your bag and made your way toward the door, unable to stand another moment of watching her fawn over him.

Senku barely registered your departure, his attention already back on his notes. “Wait, you’re leaving?” he asked, but you didn’t answer him. You just left, the door swinging shut behind you.

The cool air of the hallway felt like a relief, but the knot in your stomach only tightened as you walked aimlessly. You needed a distraction, something to get your mind off the complicated mess of emotions swirling inside you.

You didn't even realize how you ended up at the art club until you saw Yuzuhira in the corner of the room, stitching up a new piece for her collection. She looked up when you entered, giving you a warm smile, but the expression on your face must have been telling because she immediately set her pencil down and tilted her head.

“You okay?” she asked softly, her voice a little cautious.

You plopped down on the couch across from her, your frustration spilling out before you could stop it. “I’m fine.” You took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “I just ugh…I’m just a little irked”

Yuzuhira raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued but gentle in her approach. “about what?”

“You remember that new girl? Mika,” you spat, your anger bubbling to the surface.Yuzuriha nodded, her hands slowing down just a bit so you knew she was listening. “She’s... it’s like she’s trying to replace me, like Senku is just going to drop me for her.” Your words came out in a rush. “I’ve been by his side this whole time, and now she just waltzes in like she owns the place. And the worst part? She knows it’s getting to me.”

Yuzuhira’s gaze softened, and she leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “She’s really getting to you, huh?” she asked, her voice gentle, but firm with understanding.

“Yeah.” You ran a hand through your hair, exhaling sharply. “She’s always hovering around him, always leaning in like she’s trying to make a move. I can’t stand it. I don’t even know what’s worse—her annoying neediness or the fact that Senku doesn't even see it. It's like... like I don’t even matter anymore.”

The words spilled out like they had been building for days, and once they were out, you couldn’t seem to stop. “And every time I’m there, I can just feel her pushing me out, trying to prove she’s more than I am. Like I’m some kind of... joke, and she’s the real ‘assistant’ to him. It’s like I don’t even exist.”

Yuzuhira stayed quiet for a moment, letting you vent. When you were done, she nodded, her expression thoughtful. “I get it. It must be rough. But you know how Senku is—he’s not great at noticing that kind of thing, right? He gets caught up in his experiments. And Mika… she knows how to play the game. She’s not dumb. She knows exactly how to push your buttons, and she’s using it against you.”

You sighed, leaning back into the couch, frustration simmering just under the surface. “I hate that she’s doing this. I hate how she makes me feel like I’m not important to Senku anymore.” Your voice wavered, barely above a whisper. “I hate that I even care. It’s not that big of a deal…”

Yuzuhira’s eyes softened, her gaze a little more knowing than before. But she didn’t say anything about your slip. Instead, she gave you a reassuring smile and spoke gently. “Look, it’s not about what Mika thinks or does. It's about what you mean to Senku. And if anyone’s in your corner, it’s him. He might not see it yet, but he values you. Don’t let her get into your head like this.”

You let out a slow breath, letting her words sink in. It was hard not to let Mika’s constant interference mess with your head, but Yuzuhira's calm presence grounded you. Maybe you were letting this get too far under your skin—but maybe it was okay to feel something too.

You weren’t going to let Mika win—if you could even call it that. Not like this.

“Thanks, Yuzu,” you muttered, managing a small smile as you sat up straighter. “I needed to hear that.”

Yuzuhira winked and picked up her pencil again, casually returning to her sketch like she hadn’t just helped glue your entire heart back together. “Anytime. Now, take a deep breath and let it go. You’ve got a lot more important things going for you than Mika’s drama.”

You nodded, grateful for her calm steadiness. Maybe you couldn’t change everything right away, but you sure as hell weren’t going to let it break you.

For the next two weeks, you held your ground.

You didn’t rise to Mika’s little jabs, didn’t flinch when she casually brushed up against Senku’s side or let out one of her syrupy-sweet giggles at something he hadn’t even said. You trained yourself to ignore the way she fluttered her lashes like it was some kind of anime bit—every little move designed to get under your skin.

And, honestly? It worked. For a while.

You focused on the work. The experiments. The things you and Senku actually built together. You clung to that partnership, even if it felt more distant lately. And the more you acted like Mika didn’t exist, the more it seemed like she didn’t know what to do with herself. Her little “accidental” touches got bolder, more desperate. But you didn’t give her the satisfaction of reacting.

You were in control again.

At least… that’s what you told yourself.

But the thing about ignoring something that’s festering is that it never really goes away. It just waits. It waits for the perfect moment to break the surface. And Mika? She was good at waiting.

And even better at knowing exactly where to strike.

So when Mika, for the fifth time that week, casually brushed a lock of hair out of Senku's face while handing him a vial, your patience snapped.

She was too touchy, and Senku? He wasn’t even noticing.

You were testing a new compound—nothing fancy, just a mix of acids and bases—and Mika had offered to "help" again. She stood by Senku's side as usual, leaning over his shoulder, her finger brushing the back of his hand. Senku barely acknowledged it as he calculated the next step.

"Can you hold the flask steady?" Senku asked without looking at her.

“Of course,” Mika replied, her voice too sweet. “I’ve got it, Senku.”

You were barely listening, your gaze fixed on the way Mika was watching him with that adoring look in her eyes. It was like she was waiting for Senku to notice her, to acknowledge her efforts. Your fingers tightened around the beaker in your hands.

And then it happened.

Mika laughed—soft, breathy, like she’d said something important. She leaned in even closer to Senku, her shoulder brushing his. He barely flinched, just continued adjusting his notes.

That’s when you couldn’t take it anymore.

“You know,” you said, your voice louder than you intended, “if you’re done with your ‘experiment,’ I can help too. I’m not completely useless, you know.”

Mika raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into that smug smile that made you want to scream. "Oh? I didn’t realize you wanted to join in. I thought you were more... into plants and twigs."

Your jaw clenched. “I know more than just plants,” you snapped. “But it’s kind of hard to get a word in with someone who doesn’t know the meaning of personal space.”

The silence in the room thickened.

Senku, still focused on his notes, shot a glance at you. “What’s up? You’re acting kinda... weird today.”

“I’m fine,” you muttered, feeling your face heat up. “It’s just—she keeps hovering over you like she’s your personal assistant. And I’m kind of sick of it.”

Mika’s expression shifted, her amusement turning into something sharper. “Jealous much?”

“Of you?” you looked her up and down “Please, don't flatter yourself,” you replied quickly, a little too quickly. “I’m just tired of being ignored.”

Senku, as always, was oblivious. “Ignore you? You’re still here, aren’t you?”

You bit your lip, the frustration growing. “I am here. I’m still your partner, Senku. But it feels like I don’t even exist half the time anymore. You’re too busy with your new... test subject to notice.”

“Test subject?” Mika echoed, blinking like the words had knocked the wind out of her. Her carefully crafted smile cracked—just a hairline fracture, gone before anyone could call it real.

You scoffed, folding your arms across your chest. “Don’t tell me you actually thought he cared,” you said, your tone sharp and bitter in a way that surprised even you. “He’s just using you. That’s kinda his thing, isn’t it?” You rolled your eyes like it didn’t burn to say it out loud, like the words hadn’t been sitting at the back of your throat for weeks, festering.

For a second, no one moved. The lab, usually buzzing with noise and clinking glass, went dead silent. The weight of what you said hung in the air like a chemical cloud—stinging, heavy, inescapable.

Senku finally looked up from his notes, his brow furrowed, expression unreadable. His brain was working, you could see it—the cogs turning behind his eyes—but you didn’t give him time to formulate some smart-ass response. You were already grabbing your bag, heart pounding too fast, hands too hot.

“I’m sick of this” you muttered, voice tight. The words came out fast, messy, like you were trying to outrun everything you hadn’t said until now. And then you were gone—just like that—leaving nothing but the echo of your steps and the brittle crackle of tension behind you.

You didn’t hear anyone follow. Didn’t hear Senku say anything. Just Mika’s breathy little “Senku…” trailing after you, like she was already picking up the pieces you left behind.

Let her.

She could have her little moment in the lab, all fluttery eyelashes and fake concern. You were done. And if Senku couldn’t see what was happening—if he couldn’t see you—then maybe you shouldn’t try to force it.

Senku didn’t speak. Not right away.

He stood in the same spot, staring at the space you had just left, fingers still curled loosely around a pen he’d forgotten he was holding. Mika was saying something again—sweet and high-pitched and meaningless—but for once, he wasn’t hearing her.

Because the only thing he could hear was your voice ringing in his ears. That bitter edge. The hurt underneath it.

For the first time since you started working beside him, the chair next to his felt like a hole. A missing piece. And the silence that followed you out the door felt a lot louder than anything Mika could say.

You were sitting under the old cherry tree behind the school—the same one that always caught the afternoon light just right. Your knees were pulled to your chest, sketchbook balanced in your lap, pencil tucked between your fingers. But you weren’t drawing. Hadn’t been for a while. Just staring down at the blank page, waiting for something—anything—to pull you out of your own head.

The wind stirred gently around you, carrying the faint smell of sakura and something sharper, synthetic—probably a trace of the lab, still clinging to your clothes. You sighed and pressed your forehead to your knees.

Then you heard footsteps. Light on the gravel. Measured.

You didn’t need to look up.

Senku.

He stopped a few feet away, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his lab coat, head tilted like he was observing something too delicate to poke at just yet. He didn’t say anything at first. You didn’t expect him to.

“I didn’t tell her to be there, y’know.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t even glance up. Just kept your eyes on the sketchbook that hadn’t seen a line in over twenty minutes.

“She’s… persistent,” he continued after a moment. “Like a parasite. Clings to anything that holds her interest.”

“Real flatterin’ way to talk about someone,” you muttered, arms tightening around your legs.

“I wasn’t talking about you.”

That made you look up. Slowly. Eyes narrowed, voice cool. “I didn’t say you were.”

Senku scratched at the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “Tch… You’re actin’ like I swapped you out for some knockoff assistant. You think I’d pick someone like her over you?”

You said nothing, but the look on your face said everything. And he saw it.

He glanced toward the school, jaw clenching slightly. “She’s loud. Disruptive. And honestly? I barely remember her name half the time.”

“Senku—”

“I didn’t ask her to help,” he interrupted, sharper now. “She just keeps showing up and hoverin’. You think I want that?”

You tilted your head, giving him a long look. “You sure don’t not want it.”

That seemed to hit. He turned to face you fully, expression drawn tight in frustration. “I’ve got acid fumes burnin’ my nose hairs and six different reactions tryin’ to go thermonuclear. If I don’t say anything, it's not because I don’t see it— it’s because I’m tryin’ not to blow the place up.”

A huff escaped you. Half bitter, half amused. “Still could’ve said somethin’. I felt like a ghost in there.”

Senku hesitated. Then, quietly, he moved to sit beside you—not close enough to touch, just enough to share space.

“You’re not a ghost,” he said after a moment. “You’re the reason half my experiments don’t explode up in my face. I’ve got four notebooks that would be literal fire hazards without your notes.”

You blinked, glancing sideways. “That your version of sweet talkin’?”

He smirked a little. “I’m not built for compliments.”

You exhaled through your nose, resting your chin on your knee. “Still felt like I didn’t matter. Like I was just… in the way.”

His voice dropped, quieter now. “You weren’t. You aren’t. I wouldn’t even know how to replace you.”

That made something behind your ribs clench a little. You looked away again, fast, blinking against the heat prickling behind your eyes.

“Ya don’t gotta say stuff just ‘cause I’m upset.”

“I don’t do sympathy,” he replied. “You’re not wrong to be pissed. I should’ve said something sooner.”

You nodded slowly, the tension in your shoulders easing by degrees. “Yeah… well. Just don’t let her try to hold your damn hand again like you’re too busy to notice. I might actually lose it next time.”

Senku huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was fighting a smirk. “Tch. Wasn’t exactly inviting it.”

The quiet that followed wasn’t heavy this time. It settled between you like something earned. Something understood. You finally lowered your legs and put pencil to paper, sketching out the first line with a hand that didn’t shake anymore.

“I’m still mad at you, though,” you murmured without looking up.

“Fair,” he said with a half-shrug. “Just… don’t try to poison me with apple seeds again.”

That pulled a snort out of you before you could stop it. “That was one time. And it was for science.”

Senku grinned. “Yeah. My near-death experience. Real educational.”

Maybe everything between you would be fine.

Not exactly perfect, but you can work on that.

Mika dropped out of the science club a week later.

You didn’t ask any questions when you noticed she wasn’t glued to Senku’s side on Monday. And you definitely didn’t care to ask when Senku casually mentioned her name had been taken off the attendance registry.

She was useless there anyway.

Never did much beyond hovering around Senku, pretending her presence was helpful while actually just getting in the way. She didn’t participate in any real experiments, didn’t log any solo work—which, last you checked, was kind of the bare minimum for club hours.

You assumed, after realizing that sticking to Senku’s side wasn’t getting her what she wanted, she just moved on. Found some other distraction. Some new person to orbit.

You didn’t care. Not really.

Because this time, when you looked across the lab bench, Senku was looking back.

— — — — — — — — —

You still remember the first time you ever went to Senku’s house.

You were seven. He was eight. And from the moment he invited you over—and your mom said yes—, you spent the entire morning bouncing around like a storm made of nerves and hair clips. You couldn’t sit still, couldn’t stop pacing the hallway, mumbling worst-case scenarios under your breath like some tiny academic preparing for a thesis defense. What if his house was super fancy and you looked like a total dork? What if his dad thought you were weird? What if—heaven forbid—your bangs were crooked?

Your mom had called you into the bathroom with a teasing smile, already brushing out your hair with practiced hands. “You’ve been spinnin’ round so much, you’re going to wear a hole in the floor,” she said, guiding you onto the stool. You barely heard her. You were too busy inspecting your reflection with all the dramatic weight of someone about to meet royalty (at least in your eyes).

You asked her—insisted, actually—to make your hair look “the prettiest it’s ever been,” and halfway through the process, you almost burst into tears because one of the bobby pins looked slightly off. She patiently adjusted it, smoothed your hair, and promised that everything would be perfect. You told her it wasn’t for anyone special. Just, you know, for science. Science in the shape of an eight-year-old know-it-all with gravity-defying green hair and the most annoyingly perfect answers in class. Definitely not a crush. Just admiration. Academic interest at best.

When it came time to pick your outfit, your mom suggested jeans—you might be running around, after all—but you practically threw a tantrum over it. How could she expect you to go to Senku Ishigami’s house in anything less than your favorite skirt and blouse? Tear-stricken and pouty, you pleaded with all the emotional strength your seven-year-old self could muster, and, in the end, she caved. She always did.

You left the house with your hair pinned to perfection, your skirt freshly ironed, and a bag packed with snacks and handmade flashcards on astronomy and botany, just in case. Before hopping into the car, your mom bent down and asked if you were excited, and you clutched your bag to your chest, whispering, “Do you think he’ll like it?”

She smiled and said simply, “Sweetheart, I think he already does.”

The car ride to Senku’s house felt like the longest journey of your life. You sat in the backseat, gripping your snack bag tightly, your legs bouncing nervously. You couldn’t stop thinking about all the possible things that could go wrong. What if his house was too fancy? What if his dad thought you were weird? What if you accidentally spilled your juice on something?

“What if he’s allergic to peanut butter?” you asked suddenly, your voice tight with panic.

Your mom, the epitome of patience, kept her eyes on the road. “You’ve known him for over a year. I think you’d know.”

“But what if he didn’t want to tell me? What if he’s too polite to say anything and dies quietly?”

She laughed softly. “If Senku ever did anything quietly, I’ll eat your I’ll eat that weird syrup you made outta licorice root and burnt orange peels.”

You grinned despite yourself. “Hey, that was medicinal.”

When you finally pulled up outside his house, your heart skipped. It looked surprisingly normal—to normal. You half-expected plasma panels or robot arms greeting you at the front door, and felt slightly betrayed by the lack of dramatic flair. But just as the thought passed, the door opened and there was Senku, holding it open with one hand while waving you in with the other, already mid-ramble.

“It finally dried, by the way. The mitochondria model. The glue took forever because someone—” he gave you a pointed look, “—used the slow-drying kind.”

You scrambled out of the car, barely remembering to call a thank you to your mom as you kicked your shoes off in the entryway. She called after you, “Play nice! And don’t electrocute anything important!”

You waved vaguely over your shoulder, but Senku was already tugging you inside, halfway through explaining how he'd recalculated the solar panel wattage to better power his “not-even-that-dangerous” circuit board. You only caught about half of it, too focused on the way his house didn’t smell like your own. It wasn’t the usual mix of laundry detergent and herbs—instead, it smelled like antiseptics, printer ink, and something sharp and citrusy, like someone had been cleaning circuit boards with orange peels.

The living room looked like a regular living room, if regular living rooms had microscopes on the coffee table and an anatomy model sharing space with the TV remote. You stared at it with wide eyes until Senku waved a hand in front of your face.

“You’re gonna short-circuit if you keep staring like that.”

“I’m just looking,” you said, trying to sound casual. “It’s cool.”

Senku grinned. “Told you.”

Before you could ask what half the gadgets on the shelves actually did, another voice called from the hallway. “Senku? Is that your friend?”

A tall man stepped into view, smiling warmly beneath a bit of stubble and what you would later recognize as perpetual exhaustion softened by kindness. His lab coat was half-buttoned, his tie askew, like he'd just come back from something important and forgot to change. He looked a little like a grown-up version of Senku if someone swapped out the smug genius energy for soft-dad warmth.

“Hi,” you said, suddenly shy, clutching your bag a little tighter.

Byakuya crouched a bit to your level, his expression kind and easy. “Nice to meet you. That’s quite the supply kit you’ve got there.”

You glanced down, realizing your tote was bursting at the seams—flashcards, notebooks, folded diagrams poking out at the edges. “I didn’t know what we’d be working on,” you said quickly. “So I brought some notes. And samples. And—um—gloves. Just in case.”

Byakuya let out a warm laugh, not mocking but genuinely delighted. “That might make you the most prepared guest we’ve ever had.”

Your eyes darted nervously to Senku, who was now aggressively adjusting the velcro on his slipper like it was the most important task in the world.

“I also made a chart on plant propagation,” you added, voice softening.

Byakuya raised his eyebrows, impressed. “Well, I can see why Senku talks about you so much.”

You blinked. “He—he does?”

Senku let out a loud, theatrical sigh. “Okay, no one needs to start writing a biography. C’mon already. I’ve got chlorophyll samples turning green and exactly two hours to show them off.”

You let yourself be pulled along, sandals slapping awkwardly against the floor, nerves still fluttering somewhere in your chest. But as the hallway filled with his voice again—talking fast and excited and a little smug—you felt it settle into something easier.

Senku led you down the hallway like he was guiding someone through a top-secret laboratory. “Don’t touch anything on the right side of the desk,” he warned. “That’s the unstable compound section.”

You nodded solemnly like that meant anything to your seven-year-old brain.

His room wasn’t what you expected. It didn’t look like a scientist’s lair, exactly—there were stacks of books, yes, and a microscope perched on a tiny desk, but also a chaotic pile of LEGOs in one corner and a model volcano on the shelf that looked like it had erupted one too many times. The whole place smelled faintly of vinegar and rubber cement.

“Okay,” he said, letting go of your wrist. “You can sit there. But don’t knock over the beaker. I calibrated it.”

You blinked at the suspiciously lumpy beanbag chair and dropped into it carefully, adjusting your skirt like it was part of a lab coat. “I brought my own stuff,” you said, reaching into your bag. “Wanna see my flashcards on leaf types? I laminated them.”

Senku raised an eyebrow. “Laminated?” He sounded impressed. “Nice.”

You tried to pretend it was no big deal, but you were definitely glowing with pride.

The next hour passed in a blur of enthusiastic debates about which plants were most efficient for oxygen production, wildly inaccurate microscope observations (“This one looks like a frog but, like, evil”), and a very serious trade-off where you let him borrow your chart on root systems and he let you poke the bubbling goo in a test tube—“But just once,” he warned, “and with gloves.”

At some point, Byakuya poked his head in to check on you both. “Everything okay in here?”

“We’re fine,” Senku said, waving him off without looking up from where he was sketching something vaguely mushroom-shaped in his notebook.

“Yeah!” you added brightly. “Only one near-explosion.”

Byakuya’s eyebrows lifted, but he just chuckled and disappeared again.

When lunchtime rolled around, Senku’s dad called from the kitchen, “Food’s ready! I made tempura!”

Senku stood up immediately. “Finally.”

You stayed frozen in place. “Wait. Do I… take my shoes off again? Or do I say something first? Or—”

Senku rolled his eyes. “You just eat. It’s not a ceremony.”

But when you hesitated, he paused at the doorway, turned back, and offered his hand like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “C’mon. I’ll show you where everything is.”

You stared at his hand for a beat, then took it with all the shy ceremony of a kid who felt like she’d just been handed the moon.

Lunch was loud and warm and a little messy, with you trying not to get tempura crumbs on your blouse and Senku explaining the science of frying oil to you mid-bite. Afterward, you both ended up on the living room floor, heads bent over your laminated flashcards again, giggling over your own made-up quiz show rules.

By the time lunch was cleared and your flashcards were exhausted, Senku had a new plan—because of course he did.

“We’re building a telescope,” he announced, already dragging out a cardboard box filled with what looked like paper towel rolls, bits of wire, and two scratched-up magnifying lenses.

Your eyes lit up. “Like, a real one?”

“A mostly real one,” he corrected, nudging over a ruler and a roll of duct tape. “We’ll have to adjust the focal length using trial and error since someone didn’t bring their refractive index chart.”

You grinned, sitting cross-legged beside him on the living room floor. “I did too. It’s in my side pocket. Next to the iodine strips.”

Senku paused, then grinned. “Knew there was a reason I let you in my lab.”

The next hour was chaos in the best possible way. You held the body of the telescope steady while he muttered measurements, barking out instructions and adjusting lenses with the intensity of a NASA engineer. You argued over angular positioning, almost glued your fingers to the table, and knocked over a juice box in the process—but when you finally stepped out onto the porch to test your “masterpiece,” the two of you were glowing with pride.

“I’m gonna go to space someday,” Senku said, eyes turned skyward, voice quieter now. “Just like how my dad is.”

You looked up from aligning the telescope and blinked. “Really?”

He nodded. “Gonna build a rocket. Maybe not tomorrow, but someday. I’ll get to the moon.”

You didn’t laugh. Not even a little. Because you knew—knew he wasn’t just saying it to sound cool, or because it was a kid thing to say. He meant it. This wasn’t a dream he’d outgrow. It was a mission. And he was going to chase it with every ounce of brilliance and stubbornness in his bones.

And you? You wanted to help him get there.

So you just said, “Can I come?”

He looked at you like the question barely needed asking. Like your place beside him had already been calculated into the launch trajectory.

“Obviously,” he said. “Somebody’s gotta be in charge of on-board medicine. And making sure I don’t do anything reckless.”

You beamed so hard your cheeks hurt.

Later, long after the light had shifted and the living room was quieter, Senku’s dad peeked in to check on you. He found the telescope abandoned at the edge of the rug, half-complete, still warm with purpose. The two of you had crashed without realizing it, curled up in a quiet lump among open notebooks and marker-stained pillows. Your head had drifted to Senku’s shoulder, one of your arms thrown over his chest like you were mid-reach and just forgot to let go. He’d leaned unconsciously toward your warmth, and one of his hands was still loosely clutching a screwdriver.

Byakuya stood in the doorway for a moment, smiling to himself. Then, without a word, he crossed the room, gently laid a blanket over both of you, and turned off the light. And for a second, he let himself imagine a future where two kids who once built cardboard telescopes and tin foil rocket ships actually touched the stars.

an: hi... my last post was a month ago, and honestly, that doesn't even count cause it took me like 10 minutes to write. this is the work that has took over my waking thoughts and I'm so glad to be somewhat happy enough with the first chapter to finally post. I first watched Dr Stone back in Feb and I have been OBSESSED ever since so... thank you @lo1itado11 for the rec (everything I watch is because of her). ALSO I forgot just how awful it is to format on ao3, it genuinely took me 3 hours to get it right. never again (it will happen every time I post)

anyway, this is getting long. next chapter will hopefully be out this or next week. we'll see...

#senku x reader #that's was actually darn cute #they're BABIES #why are babies cute?#they're not LITERALLY babies guys #just read it and you'll see

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syndyj · 17 days ago

Text

To Restore a Name// A.B x Reader

authors note at end.

word count: 3.5k

summary: Lady Y/N Ashbourne was never meant to return to London. Not after her family’s disgrace, not after the duel that nearly destroyed her brother, and certainly not after ten years of silence from the very people who once called her their own. But when the Season begins and the pressure to reclaim her name becomes too great to ignore, she enters the ballroom with her chin high, her gloves spotless, and her secrets buried deep.

She expects whispers. She expects rejection. She does not expect the Viscount.

Anthony Bridgerton has no time for sentiment, and even less for scandal—but when he sees Y/N again, no longer the stubborn girl chasing her brother through the gardens of Aubrey Hall, but a composed and wounded woman standing alone, he makes a decision that surprises everyone, himself most of all.

A marriage of convenience, inked in silence and necessity. But beneath the terms of the contract lie a decade of unspoken words, old regrets, and something else neither of them dares to name.

Because love was never part of the arrangement. Until, somehow, it is.

Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers May 12th, 1814

Every debutante season brings its usual crop of diamond hopefuls and pearl-polished darlings, all eager to flutter their fans, flash their lashes, and secure a husband before the ink on their dance cards dries.

But amongst the well-bred blossoms of this year’s social bouquet, one name stands out not for her sparkle, but for the faint scent of scandal that clings to her hem.

Lady Y/N Ashbourne, daughter of the late Lord Ashbourne, 7th Earl of Pembroke, has made her return to the London scene after a most conspicuous absence. Some may remember her from the days when the Ashbournes were frequent guests at Aubrey Hall, their family name spoken in the same breath as the Bridgertons. But alas, time — and debt — are most unkind companions.

Lord Ashbourne’s sudden demise left behind more than grief; it unearthed debts, whispers of financial impropriety, and a hastily shuttered estate. Matters were only worsened by Lady Y/n Ashbourne’s elder brother, Lord Theodore Ashbourne, 8th Earl of Pembroke, whose involvement in a duel — the details of which remain murky, though pistols and improper conduct are said to feature prominently — cast a long shadow over the family name.

And now, here she is. Reemerging at the very ballrooms that once welcomed her as a child, now with chin held high and gowns cut modestly, not fashionably. Her manners are faultless, her composure admirable. But society, ever fickle, has not forgotten. Nor, one suspects, forgiven.

One cannot help but wonder: Is Lady Y/n Ashbourne here to reclaim her family’s former glory? Or is this her final, desperate attempt at social salvation?

Either way, she has returned. And this author, for one, shall be watching.

—Lady Whistledown

Y/N Ashbourne stood very still.

She had discovered, some years ago, that stillness could be a sort of armour. If one stood tall, with shoulders relaxed and chin at just the right angle, one gave the impression of poise. And poise, if worn convincingly enough, could look quite a lot like confidence.

It was, in that moment, the only thing she had left.

The floor of Lady Kentwell’s ballroom sparkled beneath her slippers, polished within an inch of its life. Hundreds of candles lit the walls, their soft gold glow bouncing against crystal chandeliers and bright silk gowns. A quartet in the far corner played something cheerful and clever, a dance set that seemed to flutter like a ribbon through the air. It was, by all accounts, a beautiful evening.

And Y/N wanted nothing more than to be somewhere else.

Not because of the crush of people or the sticky heat gathering at the back of her neck. Not even because of the persistent ache in her lower back, she’d stood too long during fittings, and the dress, while adequate, was not forgiving. No, she wanted to leave because of the whispers.

Not loud. Not obvious. But present.

They slithered across the room, just beneath the pleasant chatter. The hush that fell when she passed by a cluster of ladies. The faint sound of a fan snapping shut. A not-so-casual glance over a shoulder.

She knew.

She had spent the last five years in the countryside, but no amount of distance could dull the sharp edge of a ballroom’s cruelty.

Her eyes flicked toward the far edge of the room, where a cluster of young ladies stood laughing over a cup of punch. One of them—Miss Kettering, if she remembered correctly—was watching her. Not directly. Not with the boldness of a true enemy. Just enough to make her skin feel tight. Just enough to remind her that she had been gone, and now she was back, and no one had forgotten a thing.

Is she here to reclaim her family’s former glory? Or is this her final, desperate attempt at social salvation?

She had read the article three times before setting it down and walking away from the tea table. She hadn’t touched her breakfast. Her mother had insisted it wasn’t so bad—“Lady Whistledown has written far worse things about Lady Featherington, and look how often she still receives invitations!”—but Y/N knew the difference between mild scandal and quiet ruin.

One could recover from. The other could only be survived.

She let her hands rest against the smooth lines of her gown, careful not to crease the fabric. It was the best they could afford—a pale blue silk with a modest neckline, trimmed with pearls that had once belonged to her grandmother. It was well-fitted, well-made. But not fashionable. Not new. Not enough.

Nothing was, these days.

Another girl passed near her, this one in a daring shade of gold, her neckline almost scandalously low. Her voice rose in a whisper to her friend, but the violins swallowed the words. It didn’t matter. Y/N knew she was the subject of the sentence.

She had not danced once.

Not that she had expected to. But still, the sting of it surprised her.

There had been a time when she’d been the sort of girl boys tripped over each other to speak to. She’d had laughter that came too easily and eyes that sparkled when she entered a room. She had been thirteen the last time she’d stood in this very house, clinging to the skirts of her mother, trailing behind her brother Theodore as he flirted shamelessly with the Earl of Wexley's eldest daughter.

She had been somebody.

Now she stood against the wall and tried not to shift her weight from foot to foot too obviously.

A new waltz began. She looked down at her hands. They were steady. Pale, but steady.

Stillness.

She let her breath expand slowly. Focused on the rise and fall of it, how it filled her bodice, how it grounded her. She imagined herself far away from the sound of laughter and polished shoes. She imagined herself in the garden behind Ashbourne Hall, long before the creditors came. Before the silence filled every room. Before her brother disappeared behind the walls of someone else's house to heal from wounds society refused to see.

A gentle laugh drew her back.

Across the room, a girl curtsied and took a gentleman’s arm. Her smile was soft, practised. He bowed low, offered his hand, and the two began their turn around the floor. Y/N recognised the gentleman, Viscount Linley. She had met him once, briefly, when he came to call on her cousin the year before last. He had complimented her eyes. And now he did not even look at her.

She forced her lips into something faintly curved.

She would not leave. She would not excuse herself. She would not crumble.

She was an Ashbourne. They had not built palaces or won wars, but they had manners. And pride.

So she stood.

Still.

And waited.

Anthony Bridgerton was not accustomed to standing still at a ball.

He was a man of purpose, and purpose, in his experience, did not typically involve loitering near potted palms or pretending to listen to Miss Langford list the virtues of her new embroidery instructor.

But for the past ten minutes, he had not moved.

“—French knots,” Miss Langford was saying, quite earnestly. “Such a challenge for the fingers.”

He nodded vaguely.

“The Ashbourne girl has returned,” came a voice just behind his shoulder. Young. Pleased with itself. “Poor thing. I would have stayed in the country.”

Her companion gave a breathy laugh behind her fan. “And miss the chance to redeem herself? The ton always needs a fresh bit of gossip.”

Anthony turned his head just slightly, gaze scanning the far side of the ballroom. And there she was.

Lady Y/N Ashbourne.

Standing alone.

He hadn't recognised her at first. The years had changed her — softened certain features, sharpened others — but it wasn’t simply that she looked older. Everyone had. It was the way she held herself.

Her gown was pale blue, almost demure, and the pearls at her throat were modest, almost too modest. There were no sapphires, no diamonds, no family crest stitched into her gloves. But everything about her, the tilt of her chin, the careful stillness, was perfectly correct.

Too correct.

As if she had measured every breath before setting foot inside the ballroom.

Anthony said nothing for a moment, only studying her from where he stood. She did not fidget, but she did not relax either. Her hands remained lightly clasped, and she looked at the dancers with the detached focus of someone remembering steps she would not be asked to perform.

She had always been a curious child, bright, if a touch wild. He remembered her trailing behind Theodore and him like a shadow, asking endless questions, demanding to join in whatever mischief they were concocting. She had once slipped off her shoes and climbed a tree just to prove she could, and then refused to come down until they both acknowledged her superior balance.

He had laughed. So had Theodore.

Anthony’s fingers curled slightly at his side.

It had been years. Ten, to be exact. The last time he’d seen her, her hair had been in braids and her cheeks sunburnt from the summer sun at Aubrey Hall. Theodore had brought her for a week of riding and picnicking, and poorly-planned fencing matches in the garden.

It had been one of the last joyful weeks before Edmund died.

And afterwards… nothing.

The silence between their families had not been abrupt, but it had been complete. Violet had withdrawn. Anthony, young and raw with grief, had not had the presence of mind, or the courage, to reach out. And so the Ashbournes had faded from his life, bit by bit, like candlelight in a draught.

Everything he knew of them now came secondhand.

A scandal. A duel. Debts unpaid. The death of Lord Ashbourne. And Y/N, now grown, now alone, standing in a ballroom filled with people who would not touch her with a ten-thousand-pound dowry.

It was the first time he had truly seen her in ten years, and yet she was everywhere now. In the pages of Lady Whistledown. In the whispers behind gloves.

He watched her glance toward the musicians. Her expression didn’t change, not exactly, but he saw something in the line of her mouth. Resignation, perhaps. Or the kind of hope one keeps tucked away, where no one can find it.

He should have written to Theodore.

He had thought about it many times. After Edmund’s funeral. After his first Season as Viscount. After the whispers of the Ashbourne downfall had begun to make the rounds. But by then it had felt too late. The friendship they had shared as boys had withered in the dark, unattended. And Anthony, already burdened with a hundred responsibilities he had never wanted, had let it.

And now here she was.

Y/N Ashbourne. Alone in a room full of people pretending not to notice her.

He had not realised until this moment how much it shamed him.

“Excuse me,” he said curtly to the girl beside him, Miss Langford, perhaps? Or the one beside her, and moved without waiting for her response.

He crossed the ballroom without pause.

Each step brought him closer to her and, oddly, to that hollow part of himself he had ignored for years. That place where boyhood friendship used to live. Where Theodore used to stand beside him, laughing too loudly and challenging every rule. Where a stubborn little girl used to run through his memories in dusty slippers and scraped knees.

She did not see him approach. Or if she did, she made no sign of it. Her chin remained high, her eyes forward. Her stillness did not waver.

He stopped before her.

“Lady Ashbourne.”

And for the first time in ten years, she turned her eyes to him.

It had been a long time since anyone had said her name like that.

Not as gossip, not as pity. Not as a whispered addendum to someone else's conversation. But directly. Simply. With weight.

She turned.

Her expression did not change at first, though something flickered in her eyes, recognition, yes, but something else, too. Surprise, certainly. And then, so quickly it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else, her cheeks flushed.

Not brightly. Not girlishly. Just the faintest bloom of colour rising high on her cheekbones, as if her body had betrayed her carefully cultivated composure.

Anthony almost smiled.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he bowed.

She dipped into a curtsy, precisely the right depth, precisely the right grace. When she rose, her chin was set in a way that reminded him far too much of the little girl who used to insist on being dealt into every card game, even when she didn’t understand the rules.

“Lord Bridgerton,” she said, voice soft and smooth and maddeningly polite.

It was strange to hear her call him that. Once, he had been simply Anthony to her, or Theo’s impossible friend. She had thrown an apple at his head once. She had cried when he left for university and then pretended she hadn’t.

“I must admit,” he said lightly, “I hadn’t expected to see you here this evening.”

Her mouth pressed into a quiet, unreadable line. “I imagine not.”

“You’ve changed.”

“And you haven’t,” she replied, and for the first time, there was a touch of something in her voice. Not quite warm. Not quite mischief. But memory. He saw it flicker through her before it was gone.

“I’m told that’s either a compliment or a criticism, depending on who says it,” he said, observing her.

She didn’t answer.

The silence between them stretched, not uncomfortable, but fragile. And she seemed very aware of it. Her hands were still folded lightly in front of her, and though her shoulders were relaxed, he could see how tightly she was holding herself together.

She looked cold. Not in demeanour. In truth. Her skin was pale, her fingers slightly stiff. The ballroom had not yet warmed properly.

“You haven’t danced,” he said.

It wasn’t a question.

Her gaze slipped past him, toward the centre of the room. “I suppose no one wants to be the first.”

He frowned. “Then allow me.”

Her head turned sharply back toward him. “Pardon?”

“Dance with me.”

There was no flourish in his tone. No teasing smirk. Just the words, simply offered.

Y/N stared at him, and for a moment he saw something like hesitation—no, more than that. Guardedness. The sort of instinct one develops when they’ve been burned for daring to hope.

She blinked once. Slowly.

“I’m not a charity case, my lord.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“No. But I imagine many are thinking it.”

“Then let them.” He took a step closer, lowering his voice. “If they are so inclined to watch you, we might as well give them something worth seeing.”

Her lips parted slightly, just enough for a breath to catch. But she said nothing.

He offered his hand.

It hovered between them. And she looked at it for too long.

The orchestra was beginning a new set—something waltzing and warm, entirely ill-suited to the tension between them. She glanced at the floor, then at his hand again, and then—finally—she exhaled.

“I warned you,” she said, placing her gloved fingers lightly in his, “you’ll be stared at.”

He smiled then, just faintly. “Miss Ashbourne, I am quite used to being stared at.”

Her fingers trembled the slightest bit as they stepped into the centre of the room. Not enough to draw attention, but enough for him to notice. Enough for him to remember that ten years had passed since her world fell apart, and he had never once thought to knock on the door.

He would not let that silence stand.

They stepped into the set just as the first strains of the waltz lifted through the air. The music was elegant, the tempo unhurried, a piece designed to flatter rather than challenge. Perfect for a first dance.

And yet, her shoulders remained tight.

Anthony held her gloved hand with practised ease, his other hand at the small of her back, careful and steady. She was warm now. Or perhaps just warmer—he could not tell. She kept her gaze just over his shoulder, never quite meeting his eyes unless prompted.

They moved through the first turn without a word.

He did not press. He let the silence sit between them, light as the silk of her gown, and just as easy to tear.

She was still hesitant. He could feel it in the way she followed his lead perfectly, but without trust. She danced like someone who had been taught very well, but who hadn’t had much practice lately. Not in this company, at least.

“You dance beautifully,” he said.

Her eyes flicked to his, startled, as if unsure whether he was merely being polite or teasing her at her expense. “That’s… kind of you,” she said, her voice measured.

He tilted his head. “It’s not kindness,” he replied. “It’s true.”

There was a pause. The sort that stretched, just a little too long, between two people who once might’ve known how to speak easily.

Something in her jaw tightened. A faint flicker—barely noticeable, but it was there. The hint of bracing herself.

He let them pass through the next turn before he spoke again. “Your brother… is he well?”

She blinked. Her mouth parted as though the question had surprised her more than it ought to have.

Then, quietly, “He’s in Vienna. Has been for over a year now. Recovering.”

Anthony nodded, careful not to overstep. “I heard… things.”

A corner of her mouth twitched. Not a smile. “I imagine everyone did. None of them pleasant.”

Her tone was cool, but not sharp. There was something practiced about the way she said it, like it was a line she’d rehearsed and had grown tired of delivering.

They turned again. The orchestra swelled, carrying them into a wide arc of movement. For the first time, her steps matched his without hesitation. Her fingers, which had been tentative at the start, now held more firmly.

Then her eyes met his—calm, even—before she spoke again.

“He didn’t cheat, you know,” she said, her voice low. “The duel. He followed the rules. It was the other gentleman who—” She paused, just for a moment, as though catching herself mid-thought. Her throat moved as she swallowed.

“…It doesn’t matter.”

Anthony looked at her and saw the effort it cost her to say that. The press of pride against memory. The faint blush at her neck, not from flirtation, but from the awful awareness of saying too much in the wrong company.

He wanted to say something else, something that might make it easier. But what? I believe you? He did. But saying it out loud felt… insufficient.

And so, like her, he said nothing.

For a moment longer, they danced in silence.

“It matters to me,” Anthony said.

The words landed heavier than he intended. She stilled, only slightly, and her gaze flicked back to him with a coolness that wasn’t quite cutting, but close.

Her lips pressed together. “Why?”

A pause. Then, quieter—more pointed: “You haven’t seen him in ten years.”

There it was.

He felt it like a crack along glass, fine and nearly invisible, but spreading.

He could have answered.

He could have said: Because he was my friend. Because he was the first person I told I hated fencing. Because we snuck wine out of the kitchens and made each other swear we’d never be anything like our fathers.

He could have said: Because I thought about writing. About visiting. About apologising. But I didn’t, because I didn’t know how to be someone worth hearing from anymore.

But he said none of that.

His mouth tightened, then softened. “I should have called on you,” he said. “Both of you. After Father passed. I meant to.”

She was quiet. Not unkind, just… unreadable.

The music rose and fell around them. Her steps remained in time, precise, composed. But he could feel her drawing in again, her hand in his a little too still, her gaze darting briefly over his shoulder before returning to his face.

Her expression shifted—subtle, but there. A softening of her brow, a slight tilt of her head. The smallest flicker of something gentler in her eyes. Not forgiveness. Not quite. But memory, maybe. Or understanding.

“It was a long time ago,” she said at last. “And we all grieved in our own ways.”

It was gracious. It was practised. It was what one said when there was nothing left to say.

He nodded. “Yes.”

They turned again, the movement giving them something to do with their bodies while their thoughts scrambled for footing. Her fingers had settled into his now, no longer tentative, but steady.

Intentional. Still, her posture betrayed nothing, as if her spine were held up by pride alone.

She looked at him more directly now. But it wasn’t the kind of look one gives a friend. Or a stranger. It was something in between, questioning. Bracing.

Why now?

He felt it, sharp as a tack between his ribs. She didn’t ask it aloud, and yet it hung between them like fog.

He didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

Not here, not yet.

And so they danced—graceful, poised, quiet. Two people trying to pretend they hadn't once known each other in a very different life.

A/n: I figured it was time i posted this fic I've been sitting on for a while.

#anthony bridgerton x reader #bridgerton

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